Bloodshadows
by Aezara
Summary: Ficlet. Femmeslash. Narcissa-Bellatrix. Yes, incest...go away squicky people.


**_Pairing:_** Narcissa/Bellatrix  
**_Rating:_** R, for sexual references, allusions to incest, and...other stuff.  
**_Archiving:_** No. Or ask.  
**_Feedback:_** Please! Criticism will be happily devoured and considered; flames will be cheerfully used to light cigarettes.  
**_Disclaimer:_** Oh, how I wish they were mine. They aren't.  
**_Warning:_** Yes, incest. Go away squicky people.  


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**-+Bloodshadows+-**  
by Aezara 

The caress of cold metal against the pale flesh of my throat sends my soul careening through time to the days of my childhood. My sister's knife, my blood. Unblemished both; no scar to break the silver gleam in her hand, no foul impurities to spoil the liquor that coursed through my veins. 

_Pureblood._ Ever the word whispers to me of family, of love and of lust. _You remember, don't you. You remember hiding from what you wanted most, from me._ Oh yes, I remember. I recall with perfect clarity each moonbathed night in the garden, when she sought me out, laughed at me for trying to conceal myself behind the rose bushes. I remember her hands, holding me immobile against the garden wall, the thorns tearing red rivers down my legs. Strong hands, strong eyes. She could penetrate stone with those eyes, could liquify me with her hands. 

Just the right amount of pain to balance the pleasure. 

And never let the pain _become_ the pleasure. Oh no. She knew, my beautiful sister. So skilled, even as a child, at her particular brand of sadism. She knew how to take me to the edge of the earth, dangle me over, and then pull me back screaming before I could fall. She always left me weeping for more, for release. 

And then blood. My blood, hers...it mattered not. It was the same. But it was my veins she opened, my life she drank, my voice shrieking in pain and lust. Want. Need. _You belong to me. You...are...mine._ Unquestionably. I've never not been owned by her. She claimed me when we were barely more than infants; pulled my wispy fall of already paling hair and said, "Mine." Our mother always said that that was the only time I truly smiled as a baby. 

Once, she cast a Binding Charm on my arms and a Blinding Charm on my eyes so I couldn't reach for her or see the moonlight. She led me out of the garden, and I only knew because I couldn't smell the roses anymore. I was afraid, but I was claimed, and it never occurred to me to deny her or to fight...I never wanted to. She led, and I followed, and when she stopped, I stopped. She tore my nightgown with motions both brutal and smooth. Her hands ran lazy circles across my exposed flesh until I was whimpering for her to let me peak, let me fall. I can still hear her laughter as she pushed me backwards into the river, and the shock of cold water still lingers on my skin. 

She told me later that I died, that she let me drown, that she brought me back to life. But I know that she only watched me flounder for a few moments before she dove in after me. She owned me, but she loved me too. 

The next time she Bound me, I fought, but I was laughing. _You haven't changed, little princess. You still need your suffering._ Always. Oh, the years without her were torture...the wrong kind of torture. My husband, so carefully selected for his similar talents, was never able to do what she could. He could hurt, he could tear, he could break. But only she could shatter me from the inside out, take me apart. 

He knew, of course. He knew that it was her face I saw when I closed my eyes, that it was her hands I felt when he pushed me into oblivion. It was _her_ pain I needed, and she was gone. He was the substitute, and he knew. He knew to let his hair fall across my closed eyes, to let me pretend that it was hers. But then, he knew what family meant. _How long since you've been bled, my sister? How long since you've tasted yourself dying?_ Far too long. Too many years without her, without destruction, without completion. I've been waiting for this. 

I hear myself cry out as the knife glides across my skin. I feel the sticky warmth flow down, down...across my breasts, over my stomach...down. I cry out again, again, her name like a prayer falling from my lips. _Enough?_ It's never enough. 


End file.
